


Prove it all night girl and call the bluff

by musicforswimming



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Community: het_idcrack, Crossover Pairings, Dom/sub, F/M, Het, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can take it, John," she tells him, her big eyes looking all the way into him and a little smile on her face that promises another morning, if not the world. "I can take <i>you</i>," she adds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove it all night girl and call the bluff

**Author's Note:**

> For the [het_idcrack](http://community.livejournal.com/het_idcrack) challenge over on LiveJournal, off of _Supernatural_ prompt #15: "John/OFC: he'll give up control, just this once (bonus points if 'just this once' is a total lie)." Established relationship, apparently? I don't even.

It's an ugly job, one that starts with a vet who kills his own wife and kids before turning the gun on himself and gets uglier from there. By the time it's over, while he stalks away from the burning grave, all the old cracks are clear as ever. The bright evening light she's gathering up the weapons in is a strange setting for the business, and the beauty and smallness of her is even stranger. John thinks, as he always does after the bad jobs, that it'd be best if he just left right now, and then feels terrible for it, because the least he could do is leave her at the hotel.

Buffy can tell he's upset, because she's got two brain cells to rub together, and she's casting glances at him all the way back to the room. "What?" he asks, when they get there.

He's turned off the engine and she's still just looking at him, sizing him up, and finally she shakes her head, looks right through him to the glowing sunset beyond. "You're gonna do something stupid and noble, aren't you?"

"I'm only gonna hurt you," he tells her. "Buffy, that's how this is gonna end -- that's how it always ends with me and mine. You deserve -- "

But she cuts him off by laughing, and there's an edge to it, brittle and broken as he feels right now, but it's real laughter for all of that. "Oh my God, you think I don't know about everything you touch ending in misery and pain and death?"

He starts to answer but she waves him into silence, stalks ahead of him to the room, but the fact that she leaves the door ajar signals that they're not done yet. Once he's inside, she startles him, puts her hands on his jacket, makes like she's going to pull it off. He takes hold of them, stops her, and then feels her hands tighten. She's fighting him fighting her, and he understands a little better, in this moment, what she said about him not knowing what Slayer means. Buffy doesn't pull at his jacket any more, but she doesn't take her hands away, either.

"I can take it, John," she tells him, her big eyes looking all the way into him and a little smile on her face that promises another morning, if not the world. "I can take _you_," she adds. John hears a little something else in her voice now, something that he's only seen out of the corner of her eye when she runs past him, tearing headlong into a screaming, bloody fight. If she were another hunter, he'd've left her far behind the first time she charged into something like that, would've known from experience that she would be dead in a year at the absolute outside.

She's not a hunter; maybe he forgets that too often. She's not like him, she's not something John can understand that easily, and both of them stand here and look at each other and he tightens his grip on her hands, but before she can misread him and walk away, he speaks again.

"Prove it."

A spark in her eyes -- her hands tighten on his jacket -- motion as she spins him -- it all happens in a flash, the next thing he's really aware of is being slammed against the wall. The height difference means she has to stand on her toes, and for all that his instincts tell him to bend to her, he doesn't, because by now John knows she'd take it as an insult. She yanks at his jacket, pulls it off of him, drops it on the floor and steps on it as she drags a chair over, climbs up on top of it and kneels on the seat so that now _he's_ the one who has to stand on his toes. She bites his lip, his chin, rips his shirt open and when she bites his shoulder he can't ignore his instincts any longer. John wraps his arms around her waist and picks her up, deposits her on the dresser and is going for his waistband when it happens. She catches his hands, a reverse of where they were just standing. He fights her and, again, she fights him fighting her.

He looks at her again, drags his eyes up over the silk of her top, the endless bright blue of a clear April sky. Buffy's eyes are big and shadowed. He makes one last attempt to break her grip and is met with a tightening of it instead. He bites down on the hiss of pain that wants to escape, but she has to see the way his jaw tightens, and she leans over, closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his chest.

"I'm gonna win this, John," she whispers, and when he tries fighting it once more she closes her fists and he falls to his knees, breath hushing through gritted teeth because the pain is so intense.

"Do you still need me to prove it?" she asks. Her grip has loosened a little, just enough that he knows nothing -- none of those bones, at least -- will break. If this were a hunt, if she were a job, he would resort to biting, maybe. Her calf is right next to his head -- soft skin, maybe her Achilles tendon -- it might be enough to get her to let him go, if this were a hunt, might buy him enough time to make a break for it. Get to his gun, even if he can't make it out the door. If this were a hunt, he never would've gotten this close to her to begin with. He didn't blow her head off or torch her.

He's a hunter. She's not, and this is not a hunt. John lets out a long breath, lets his arms and hands go limp and nuzzles the inside of her calf, presses a kiss against it and doesn't bite or even lick.

She lets go of his hands. He feels her legs tensing, feels her knees start to flex, and before she can bend completely and he loses his chance, John wraps an arm around her leg and spreads his fingers wide in a plea that, somehow, she understands, because she stays still for just a moment longer. In the silence of the motel room, he can hear his breath, feel it warming her skin, and he presses a kiss against the inside of her right knee. Buffy settles a hand in his hair, and when he lets go of her leg she climbs down, kicks the chair away, sinks down into a crouch and takes his face in her hands.

"Please -- " he starts it, but he doesn't know what he's asking for, watched the words go up in flames a long time ago. "Please," he says again, and reddens when he feels his throat break on the word.

"Shhh." Buffy slips her hands under the thin cotton shirt, stretches them across his belly and rests them there for a second before taking hold of the hem and pulling the shirt up over his head. She wraps her arms around him, pulls him against her and lets him hang onto her as tight as he can, because he knows perfectly well now that it's not going to hurt her. They rest like that, her breath coming warm against his chest, the air at his back cool enough that the contrast makes him shiver. They rest like that until the sun's gone all the way down and the room isn't in twilight anymore, it's in full-on darkness, and then finally John lets go and she turns on the lamp, pulls him to the bed and pushes him down onto it. He's sitting up, and he starts to pull her into his lap but she resists, stays where she is, kneeling over him on the bedspread. She bends down and kisses him on the forehead, squeezes his shoulders and drags her mouth down his throat. Her teeth close on his shoulder, again, sharper than last time but quicker, too, and with her hair still pulled back in its ponytail he can see that she's smiling. She pushes him back until he's reclining, and John is surprised at how easy it is to stop resisting.

Buffy strips off her top and exposes a whole lot of beautiful body, kicks off her jeans and lets John run his hands along her shoulders, rub circles on her back with his thumbs and undo the clasp on her bra. But she pulls it off herself, and when he goes again for the closure on his jeans she catches hold of his hands and squeezes until he goes still and leans back against the pillows again. Already she doesn't need to say anything; it's like a hunt in that regard, at least, because she reads him perfectly.

She kisses and presses her fingers against his skin until he wants to reciprocate, reaches for her, and then she takes her hands in his and pins them against the mattress beside him. And she bites him -- just below his nipple, hard enough and suddenly enough that a strangled little cry escapes his throat, and then -- "Jesus _Christ_" escapes him, too, because his dick has been hardening all throughout, of course, but suddenly he's so rock-hard that the closure on his jeans is hurting him. In that second he forgets everything but the need to wrap his arms around Buffy and sink into her and _keep_ forgetting, and only when her nails dig into his tensing arms and her teeth sink into his skin again does he remember himself. But the new pain does the same thing the last round of it did, and whether this cycle is gonna take him to the worst place in the universe outside of hell or the best place in it outside of heaven (both of them know enough from both not to screw around too much with hyperbole), he's not sure. She takes pity on him and straddles him, at least, slinging a leg over his thighs and adjusting her grip on his wrists, sliding her hands down to interlock with his before pinning them again. She digs her nails into the backs of his hands harder than ever for a second, and John tries to bite back the gasp and only half-succeeds, breathes heavy through his nose like a man being tortured.

Then, and only then, does she let go of his hands and undo the closure on his jeans herself. John is a little embarrassed at how much of a relief it is, at the shaky sigh that escapes him.

"Are we gonna have to work on training you?" she asks. She's grinning, and he's pretty sure she means it as a joke, but the laugh that escapes him is one of drunken giddiness, not shared good humor, because in this moment that's not sounding like such a terrible fate.  
   
   
   
   
Buffy makes him beg.

She makes him beg before she finally pulls him on top of her and lets him push in. Buffy's a little surprised, remembers very clearly making a mention of training him and is kind of weirded out -- but in a really, really good way -- over how that's actually sounding kind of swell. But for now -- for tonight -- she just makes him tell her. It's about him knowing, but it's about her knowing, too; it's about knowing for sure that this is what he wants, because if she's misread him and she loses control...

Buffy doesn't like to think about what will happen if she loses control.

So she makes him spell it out for her. She listens to him hiss and moan as she leaves bites that she knows are gonna bruise in the morning. She makes him tell her, first in a whisper -- desire-hoarse and newness-of-this-whole-thing-soft -- and then again, a little louder, until he's just saying "please, Buffy, please".

She's breathing hard herself, and the way his grunts have turned into cries makes her ache pretty crazy-fierce between her legs. She bites him again, hard, hears the catch of breath and the little vocalization that goes with it and gets even hotter herself, and then she lets go of his hands, still pinned at his sides, and pulls him on top of her. "Okay."

He pushes into her and she digs her nails into the hands he uses to hold himself up. John groans at it, and she pulls him tighter to her, bites what skin she can and feels his rhythm catch. She can hardly breathe, but she kisses him anyway, hard, grabs his hair in her left hand and puts her right arm around his waist and unbalances him, because the whole point of this was that she could take it. Buffy twists the hand in his hair, digs her nails into his back, bites at his lip, and he keeps shivering against her. Every time his rhythm slips the heat between her thighs, around him, gets a little hotter, and finally she can't keep trying, either, feels herself slipping away to join him, and the thing that seals it is knowing that she's the one who put him there.  
   
   
   
   
He gets it in the morning, watching her sleep, that this wasn't a fluke. Moreover, for a second, he has a flash of something that might be insight -- rare, on account of how there's not usually much in the way of light for Winchesters -- and he thinks _it was only something that changed everything, not something that destroyed everything_. The realization keeps him from falling back to sleep, keeps him looking at her as the dawn brightens the room. She stirs a little when he gets out of bed to wash his face, she's yawning over a cup of tea from the kettle as he goes through his morning routine. When he comes back to the bed, she's sitting up, and when he lies down again, it's with his head in her lap, and she idly strokes his hair as she flips through the channels and finishes her tea.

"You let me sleep late," Buffy finally says, and John laughs and rubs her thigh, laughs at the idea that he might _let_ her do anything. She looks down at him and grins at something, ducks her face away.

"What?" he asks, and she actually _giggles_, darts peeking looks back at him and then looks away again, grinning.

Finally, she sets her cup down and looks over at him again, for a little longer than she's managed yet, runs a hand along his throat, just into the collar of his shirt. "What's the other guy look like?" she asks.

John grins at that, too, feels himself redden, even, remembering the bruises he saw in the mirror this morning. Then Buffy grabs him by the hair and kisses him, even as their breath laughs out across each other's lips. He opens his eyes briefly, because it's all light and her skin, but then she twists her hand into a fist and the sting of pulled hair forces his eyes closed again, like the addition of this pleasure is one too many, makes trying to keep his eyes open like trying to look right at the sun. But like the sun she's still there, powerful and warm, and as she pushes him gently back, pins his wrists with her hands and climbs on top of him, he soaks up her warmth and the sight of her as long as he's able to bear it.


End file.
